


Restless Nights

by NinjaSniperKitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, In which Jaskier is being shameful af, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, There's probably a name for this but I don't know what, Watching Someone Sleep, dubcon just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26203783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaSniperKitty/pseuds/NinjaSniperKitty
Summary: Unable to sleep, Jaskier fantasizes about Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	Restless Nights

He can't sleep.

Jaskier swears that he's been lying there for at least two hours. Even though he feels physically and mentally exhausted, it's too damn cold out for him to get comfortable. The ground is too hard, even with his bedroll. There are too many bugs buzzing about, the beating of their wings deafening in the stillness of the night. His brain has, for the past hour, been replaying every single embarrassing thing that has ever happened to him.

In a word, he is miserable.

He isn't cut out for this whole trekking across the countryside thing. He was made for the finer things, like soft beds and good food. Not dirt floors and whatever morsels Geralt could scrounge up from the forest. Yet if accompanying Geralt on his adventures was the kick in the pants his muse needed, then he could find it in himself to continue eating scrawny rabbits for two meals a day. 

But nothing said he couldn't complain about it the entire time.

With a huff, Jaskier turns onto his side, willing sleep to come to him _any fucking moment_ now. Under the light of the full moon, he scans the dark tree line before him until his gaze falls upon Geralt’s still form.

Is he asleep? Jaskier wonders how anyone could conceivably sleep like that; Geralt did not look comfortable, what with his back up against an unforgiving tree and his swords in his lap. His arms are crossed—crotchety in sleep as in wakefulness. Yet his eyes are closed. His breathing is slow, rhythmic.

_“Geralt, are you awake?”_ Jaskier whispers.

No response.

The bard exhales loudly through his nose. He’d been hoping that he was awake so that at least he could converse with someone while he waited for sleep to come to him. At least it’s reassuring having Geralt next to him—asleep or not. Normally, he would have never dared to sleep in the open like this, yet he feels safe with him here. Surely Geralt would not have fallen asleep had he deemed the area unsafe. And surely he would wake should something try and eat them or burgle them in the middle of the night—witcher senses and all that. 

He’s safe with Geralt here.

A part of him longs to move his bedroll closer to the man, to share that body heat that seemed to burn so much hotter than that of a typical human. The campfire has long since been extinguished, and even his furs are struggling to keep out the autumn chill.

Maybe they could share his bedroll. It would certainly be more comfortable for Geralt than sleeping against a tree. They could both benefit; Jaskier could steal Geralt’s body heat, and Geralt could have some semblance of comfort for once in his life.

No, that would be odd. You didn’t just ask your friend to sleep with you—platonic as it may be. To be honest, though, he would be open to extending the invitation to him as lovers as well. If Geralt ever asked to be intimate with him, to release some of that pent up irritation that he always seemed to be holding on to, he wasn't sure if he could find the strength to say no. Jaskier sighs and pulls the furs higher to his chin.

Geralt would smell terrible anyway, of horses and monster viscera and sweat. His smell alone would prevent him from finding rest, probably. The man had no concept of cleanliness if it didn’t involve an overpriced bath at some inn. Bathing or washing one’s clothes in the river was apparently a foreign concept to the witcher—much to Jaskier’s dismay. 

His eyes begin to wander. Across Geralt’s still form, to his wind-chapped lips, to the prominent pectorals beneath his simple shirt. Despite witchers’ ill-begotten reputation as emotionless freaks of nature, Geralt really is quite handsome—almost ethereally so. Rugged. Although Jaskier fancied men, he hadn't dared to lie with one (yet.) He’s thought about it, sure. About what it would be like to kiss a man, to be touched by one. About how different their hands would feel on his cock versus the soft, delicate fingers of a woman. And he'd be lying if he said he had never entertained the thought of what Geralt would be like in bed.

As he digs deeper into his lustful thoughts, his body begins to feel hot despite the frigid air nipping at his exposed face. 

His stomach clenches with need and a wave of warmth pools there, travels lower, _lower_.

Jaskier bites his lower lip.

_Just this one time,_ he thinks to himself. One time and never again. He could be quick, quiet. Geralt would never even know.

The bard slips a hand beneath the furs and palms at his cock through his braies. He is already half-erect. God, when had that happened? As quietly as possible, he goes to undo the fastenings. 

His gaze is still fixed on Geralt, looking for any indication that he may be awake. Seeing that his breathing is still rhythmic, he wraps a loose fist around his half-erect cock and begins to languidly stroke himself.

This is wrong. Improper. If Geralt were to catch him doing this, he certainly would not let him live it down. But _fuck_ if it doesn't feel good… His body yearns for the stimulation. It'd been at least two weeks since he had last pleasured himself—he simply hadn’t had the time or energy recently. Geralt had kept him busy enough that he would fall asleep the moment he laid down. This is very, very wrong. He knows this. But the taboo nature of it only stokes the fire in his belly all the more…

His thoughts drift to what it would be like if it were Geralt touching him instead, and his own fingers are replaced by Geralt’s calloused ones. The rough hands of a swordsman. Jaskier has his own fair share of calluses that he’d earned through years of lute practice, but his hands are pristine in comparison to the witcher’s.

Geralt, loose silver hair draped around his shoulders as he stroked him, no time for teasing. His stubble scratching at his jaw while he claimed his mouth, all tongues and teeth and Jaskier’s blunt nails raking down his chest. Jaskier tightens his grip around his cock and relishes in the jolt of toe-curling pleasure it sends down his spine. His own hands are still far too soft for him to imagine that it's Geralt’s hands mercilessly stroking him, and he cannot bring himself to be rough the way Geralt would be. 

Geralt would no doubt be rough in bed; he’d accidentally witnessed enough of him coupling with that sorceress to tell that he liked to be in control. A part of him wishes that the witcher would wake up, call him a fucking degenerate in that deep growl of his. Maybe even finish this himself… That thought alone is enough to make him shudder with want.

A groan falls past the bard’s lips, and he clamps a hand over his mouth in an attempt to quiet himself. His eyes flick up to Geralt’s; they're still closed. _Good._ He's so fucking close, too close, and he can feel that delicious tension beginning to coil in his core.

He imagines Geralt nipping at his ear and whispering things only meant for him. Oh, what terrible and lewd things he would say in the moment… He imagines Geralt tangling a fist in his hair and trailing hot kisses down his throat, his chest, his navel, until he can feel that hot breath on his thighs. On his cock. That terrible mouth of his around—

“God… fuckfuck _fuck—Geralt!”_ Pleasure explodes in his core and Jaskier finishes with a gasp, heart pounding, his fist milking every last drop of seed from his cock. Every nerve in his body is alight. He feels euphoric, and dizzy, and…

Yellow eyes are watching him.

_Panicked._

Geralt is very much awake. His face is an unreadable mask.

_Extreme_ panic.

Jaskier’s heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. His stomach sinks. _God, how long had he been watching him? How much had he seen?_ He wants to be anywhere else. Death could have taken him at that moment and he would not have complained.

_Fuck._

Jaskier sinks into his bedroll until only his eyes are poking over as shame overtakes him. He waits for Geralt to break the thickening silence first.

Geralt blinks the sleep from his eyes. “Is something the matter?”

“I—ah, hah…” Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat. His face is beet red, and he can only hope that Geralt can't see his expression under the light of the moon. His mind, feeling overheated with embarrassment, frantically searches for something, _anything,_ to say. To explain himself. He regrets wishing that Geralt would wake up; it wasn't _nearly_ as erotic as he had imagined.

“You called out. Are you okay?” There's a cautious tone to his voice. Even in the dark, Jaskier can see that Geralt is scanning the area—searching for threats? His hands grab for the blades on his lap and he goes to stand up. 

Had he…? Knowing Geralt, he certainly would have said something or beat him within an inch of his life had he even the slightest suspicion of what he had just done. He feels a small sliver of hope. 

As surreptitiously as possible, Jaskier wipes his hands off on his braies—they are already filthy anyway—and tucks himself back in. He clears his throat.

_He could do this._

“S-Sorry. There was a, um, a spider. A big one. In my bedroll.”

_Smooth._

Geralt fixes him with a stare that would have had any other man quaking in their boots. It would have been an attractive look on him had Jaskier not been fearing for his life. Finally, Geralt sighs loudly through his nose and goes to lean back against the tree again. The swords return to his lap.

Some of the tension in Jaskier’s shoulders releases. _That went far better than he had expected._ He could deal with Geralt being annoyed with him. That was no different than his typical irate state.

“You know,” Jaskier pauses, thinking, ”you're welcome to share my bedroll if you'd like. It's rather cold out, and I would hate for you to catch a chill.”

The witcher stares at him for another long moment—was that a knowing look that just flashed across his face?—before he grunts and crosses his arms. “Don't wake me again unless you're dying.” His eyes close once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 3 AM and I don't know why 😎👉👉


End file.
